


Sweetness

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Dessert & Sweets, M/M, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: Part of the #SixDrabbles challenge.Prompt: "something sweet, like chocolate or cakes"
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Сладость](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952462) by [genmitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu). 



> Original prompt by MorfeevKot

Jim is hardly surprised by a knock on his door late at night. Whatever it is, he’s not expecting anything good from this day which just refuses to end, so he holds his gun at the ready when he cracks the door open.

“Jim, my dear old friend!” Oswald smiles at him. “Please forgive such a late call, but…”

It doesn’t really matter what his excuse is this time. Jim looks him over, noting sad wrinkles near his mouth, and that he stands a little rigidly, and, of course, the expression in his eyes that is so different from the usual - and Jim opens the door more. He can explain it to himself after.

“Come in,” he invites him, and puts his gun back. He won’t need it tonight.

Oswald smiles at him, shyly and gratefully, and demonstrates that he’s come bearing gifts, showing Jim a box. It has a logo of one of the most expensive bakeries in the city on it. Jim lifts his eyebrows.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he points, taking the box. “Wash your hands and come to the kitchen.”

He puts the box on the table and starts filling the kettle with water. It seems like his plans for the evening, consisting of forgetting dinner and crashing on the sofa in front of the TV, are going awry but Jim can’t bring himself to regret it. Somehow, another person’s presence in his apartment feels nice, soothing - there’s that sound of running water in the bathroom, then the door closes and soft uneven steps approach.

He probably shouldn’t have stayed alone for so long.

Or maybe he should just stop lying to himself, he thinks, feeling the corners of his lips twitch in response to Oswald’s shy smile when he stands in the doorway.

“Tea or coffee?” Jim asks, putting the kettle on the stove.

“Tea, please,” Oswald responds and freezes awkwardly. “Can I help with anything?”

“It’s okay, I got it,” he shakes his head and proceeds to take the mugs and plates out of the cupboard. He comes to the table right in time to see Oswald untie the ribbon on the box and take the lid off.

There’s an assortment of mini cakes inside, bright-coloured, festive, covered with glaze and topped with fruit, and much too pretty for such a drab evening. Looking at them Jim suddenly remembers a trip to an amusement park in his childhood, on one of his Dad’s rare days off, when they could all be together as a family. He doesn’t remember the rides at all, but he remembers sitting in a café after, drinking hot chocolate and eating chocolate cakes, and that memory of them together is so vivid. His Mom had a red dress on, his Dad wore a very casual Hawaiian shirt, the day was bright and sunny, and so, so far away now. Jim thins his lips involuntarily.

“Feels like a waste to eat these things in the kitchen,” he says with some reservation. “Let’s move to the living room.”

They set the table there, carrying the mugs, the plates and forks together, and Jim catches a small, almost sad smile on Oswald’s lips when they go back and forth, as if he’s somehow got infected by Jim’s melancholy. But he seemed a little off himself, from the start, and Jim feels something constrict in his chest. With all those talks about friendship, with them allying so often, with the fact that Jim let him in so easily - their relationship is still not one where he could hug him and ask what was wrong. Well, he _could_ ask, but…

“Which one do you want, Jim?” Oswald asks him pleasantly when the preparations are finished and they both have their tea.

“The chocolate one,” Jim says at once, and Oswald puts it on his plate carefully. Sweet glaze, soft spongy cake drenched with cherry syrup - it all overwhelms Jim with the variety and richness of the tastes, and the cake is not like the one from his memories at all, but it still evokes that day, and it’s so, so bittersweet.

He hums in a pleased way.

“I’m glad you like it, Jim,” Oswald smiles at him but only with his eyes, and delicately takes a bite of his own cake, bright yellow and topped with a raspberry. Jim stares at his graceful hands, how they move, how he brings a fork to his mouth, how his lips part… Jim averts his eyes.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks lightly, sipping his tea to mask the sudden turmoil.

“Oh…” Oswald puts his fork down and stares at the plate. Just for a moment he allows himself to slouch and then he straightens again, tries to smile again, trying to be the perfect guest, no doubt. “You know, Jim, today… today’s my Mother’s birthday… or it would have been, and I… I didn’t want to be alone.”

So he came here, to the only person, apparently, who also knew his mother. Jim remembers that weird little meeting well - Oswald in a silly party hat and how quickly he took it off when he saw Jim; a fragile miniature woman with stunningly beautiful eyes, introducing herself with a name that sounded unusual and lifting her hand for him to kiss; and how anxiously Oswald awaited his reaction, only relaxing when Jim played along - did he really expect him to act rude?

And he also remembered how unusually bright and frightened his eyes had been when Jim came to him to talk about those mayoral candidates murders, how tense and high-strung he’d been then… why didn’t Oswald tell him his mother was in danger? Did he not trust him, did he not want to involve him?.. But Jim wouldn’t have refused him, moreover, Oswald could indeed ask for help from the law enforcement then, safely…

Everything went so wrong then, the foundation made of fears and doubts was too unsure - and now Oswald is sitting in his living room, attempting to smile and appear as his usual self, and not the lonely orphaned child which is certainly the way he must be feeling right now.

“Well, why didn’t you say so,” Jim hears himself say, excessively cheery, because he doesn’t know how to react, at all, and if he’s able to offer Oswald anything more than his questionable company - no, it’s not pity, not at all, it’s just something tugging at his heart, and Jim can only do so much with words. “That calls for a celebration.”

Jim gets up and half-smiles at a confused Oswald on his way to the kitchen. He should have some, shouldn’t he, there, deep in the fridge, forgotten - Jim can’t even recall the occasion which he’d bought it for - a bottle of champagne. Hoping that it won’t turn out to be horrible, Jim takes the glasses and returns to the living room. Oswald is tense there at the table, but he seems to relax a little when he sees what Jim’s brought, and tries to smile shyly again. It only makes Jim wish for his real smile, the one he used to greet him with before. Jim turns on the radio - it feels a little more festive with the music. Fortunately, so late at night it plays something neutrally classic and not the latest dance hits.

“Alright…” Jim pops open the bottle, making the cork hit the wall, and, flaunting just a little bit, pours the champagne into the glasses. “To Gertrud Kapelput!”

The bubbles tickle his nose as the wine sparkles down his throat, but it tastes decent after all, and Jim watches Oswald raise his glass as well and take a sip.

“Thank you, Jim,” he smiles at him gently and looks at him with such warmth Jim himself feels bubbly and sparkly like champagne.

“Tell me about her?” he asks after an awkward pause. Oswald looks at him with some doubt, suspecting banal courtesy or something, but Jim does want to know about his mother, and what his childhood was like, and he breathes a little sigh of relief when Oswald decides to indulge his strange whim.

“She… she wasn’t the easiest person, even when I was little. She was always so emotional, sensitive, you know… very easily upset. But she was always on my side, and she always lo…” his voice breaks and Jim thinks for a whole terrible moment that Oswald would cry, but he somehow manages to collect himself and smile again, crookedly. “In her youth, she was an actress in a small theater, and she could never put it behind, even when… She… She read me plays instead of fairy-tales before bed. She taught me to dance…” he drinks more champagne hastily, and Jim joins him, just to mask the unease.

Maybe the wine is too heady, or maybe it’s just that the waltz started playing - no matter. Jim impulsively stands up and offers Oswald his hand.

“Would you like to?”

There’s something in Oswald’s eyes then, and his lips part, and then he puts his thin hand into Jim’s offered palm.

“Yes.”

They take their positions clumsily, their hands end up bumping. Jim hadn’t danced in so long - the last time he waltzed was back in school…

“Are you leading, or am I?” he asks in a suddenly husky voice, stifling a nervous laughter. They press to each other so closely.

“I am,” Oswald says firmly and holds Jim’s hand in a different way, settling his other hand on Jim’s back, under his shoulder blade, and makes the first step. And Jim hardly remembers the steps, but Oswald’s movements, some cues he gives with his hands, something Jim can’t even name - but he feels it in the rhythm and Oswald’s touch, and it makes Jim go in the right direction, makes him respond and move in sync, and not even Oswald’s limp throws him off. It’s all so unusual - the partner’s role, and Oswald’s closeness, his warmth - and Jim feels so good right now. Oswald spins him to the music, again and again, and smiles at him, dazzlingly handsome, and he makes some tricky move in the end, the one that makes Jim arch and stretch his leg back, and they’re pressed to each other in such a way that it feels like a passionate embrace. His breath hitches, Oswald’s face is so close, his lips parted and so attractive… Jim closes his eyes and leans towards him…

“You dance beautifully, Jim,” Oswald says, straightening up and helping Jim do the same. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

What?.. was that all? Jim feels deprived of something important all of a sudden, as if someone showed a candy to a child and then put it away, slapping his hands. The hurt, irrational, but no less intense for that, fills him up. Oswald’s hands slide off him, lingering a little - no, he didn’t imagine that! - and Jim surges forward, holding Oswald himself now and slotting their mouths together.

A minute hesitation, and then Oswald responds, pressing to Jim more and moaning, and his lips are so tender, so sweet… A wet tongue is almost shy over the contour of Jim’s lips, but as soon as he parts his mouth and lets it in, the shyness disappears. Jim burns and melts at this kiss, and they can’t separate, can’t stop - they want more of that sweetness, more, and deeper, deeper…

By some miracle they manage to avoid the table, but they don’t make it to the sofa either - just like that, against the wall, unable to hold back anymore, and it’s like the continuation of their dance, but the rhythm is more fiery and passionate right now, as all their feelings get naked and break free. Their fingers lace together, so firmly it almost hurts, their lips part only for moans, loud and maddening, and it’s impossible, unthinkable to stop…

“I should’ve taken you dancing a long time ago,” Oswald almost purrs, lying face down on the bed, mellow and content as Jim lazily caresses him.

“That dance was very impressive, no doubt, but that alone wouldn’t have been enough.”

“Oh?”

“You’re lucky I have such a sweet tooth,” Jim smirks and slaps Oswald’s butt playfully. “And that you’re so very _sweet_.”


End file.
